


Waiting

by Luthien



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-04-09
Updated: 2003-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-14 19:25:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthien/pseuds/Luthien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dumbledore watches over the school late one night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2003, so the events of the story have now been overtaken by canon.

In the darkest hour of the night, somewhere between midnight and first light, Hogwarts is quiet. The castle sleeps, waiting for morning. Most of it sleeps, anyway.

A light still burns in the headmaster's office. The room looks much as it does at every other hour of the night and much as it has on every other day down through the years since Dumbledore first took it for his own. Silent portraits line the walls. They look down on Dumbledore with knowing, not altogether friendly expressions on their painted faces. Anticipatory, that's the word for them. The phoenix in the corner looks at him, too, but it's impossible to tell how it feels, if complex emotions can even be ascribed to such a creature. It sits perfectly still on its perch, old and grey and blending in with the shadows that lurk around the edges of the room, beyond the reaches of the desk lamp. The bird is on its last legs; the fact that it is still sitting there, and not yet turned to smoking ashes, the only sure sign that it still lives.

The headmaster has been hard at work tonight, though there's little evidence of his endeavours to be seen; a single envelope of heavy buff parchment alone attests to the extent of his preparations. He finishes addressing the envelope, completing the final _l_ in 'McGonagall' with his signature flourish in rainbow ink. The old man is almost finished now. There's only one thing left to be done. He sits up straight in his chair, looking over the top of his half-moon spectacles at the tall candle standing precariously at the very edge of the desk. He gazes at the shadow cast by the candle, which stretches out like an impossibly long, ghostly finger, pointing Dumbledore inexorably towards the tall mirror which stands in front of the far wall.

Dumbledore doesn't try to avoid the inevitable. He has always done what has to be done. He's never flinched from the demands of necessity. Now, he gets to his feet and traverses the room, unhurried, until he is standing before the mirror. Somehow the light has moved with him, and it's bright enough to see the mirror properly now. It's curiously blank, somehow failing to reflect anything in the room, including Dumbledore himself. He waves a hand, almost negligently, and the mirror glows. It's still failing to reflect anything that an ordinary mirror would reflect, but now a picture is coming sharply into focus on its face, where there was nothing a moment ago. Dumbledore stares intently at the picture for a moment. It shows the Great Hall, empty and silent as it should be at this time of night. And then the scene fades, to be replaced almost immediately by another. A classroom, this time.

And so the headmaster makes his nightly rounds, perhaps for the last time.

The mirror shows Dumbledore empty hallways and deserted corridors. The staircases are still. The ghosts are nowhere to be seen. There are no students wandering where they should not, nor staff waiting to catch them out. There is no black-clad Potions master on the prowl at this late hour. Even Filch and the ever-vigilant Mrs Norris appear to have retired for the night. There isn't even the faint rustle of an invisibility cloak to be heard. No one is out roaming tonight. For once.

The picture changes, and Dumbledore frowns at what next meets his eyes: a small clutch of students gathered close to the fire in the Gryffindor common room. They are silent, like the rest of the castle. Dumbledore identifies them, one by one. Seventh-years, all of them. Harry Potter's friends are among them. They are waiting.

Dumbledore waves his hand and the mirror goes blank for an instant before showing a room containing a number of curtained beds. Student beds. Dumbledore knows that the beds are empty without needing the mirror to show him proof. This is a Slytherin dormitory; for the last seven years it has housed the same small group of boys. Now they are gone, and will not return.

The picture fades out and a different one takes its place. The headmaster is acquainted with every room in Hogwarts, but this one is more familiar to him than most. He's never seen it look quite like this before, though. Bookcases have been overturned, furniture smashed, potions scattered haphazardly around the floor, though these last are intact thanks to the unbreakable glass bottles in which they're stored. The headmaster's eyes narrow as he searches amongst the wreckage. He relaxes ever so slightly as he spies what he's looking for, stretched out under a grey blanket near the door.

Snape lies there, apparently unhurt, only a scratch or two marring his unlovely features. His tangled hair and swollen, silent lips speak the truth of what has happened here tonight after the initial violence spent itself. The dark, tousled head tucked securely beneath his chin is a further clue.

The Potions master stares upward, unseeing but quite awake. He will not sleep tonight. He will not stir from his current position or make any move to disturb the boy until he has no choice. In the morning he will rise stiffly from the floor and curse at the aches and pains in his back. Yes, he will curse, perhaps in more ways than one.

The image shifts again. Now Dumbledore is looking into another familiar room, one located in this very tower. He's unsurprised to see the tall, straight-backed form of his deputy headmistress standing by an open window, staring out into the blackness. She appears as composed as always, the expression on her face inscrutable. She's wearing a long, burgundy dressing-gown over her nightdress, insufficient protection against the cold night air. That jars. It is uncharacteristic of her to be less than properly prepared for any eventuality.

And then he notices that her feet are bare.

McGonagall turns and stares straight at him. Dumbledore looks straight back at her. He always does what he must. Neither moves for a full minute. Two. Then McGonagall shivers and turns away to pull the window closed. Almost immediately, Dumbledore waves a hand, breaking the connection. The mirror is blank again.

A sound comes from the corner. The phoenix is stirring on its perch. It blinks slowly.

"Still with us?" Dumbledore asks. "I do wish you'd get on with it, Fawkes." His voice sounds peevish, even to his own ears. Querulous. Old and tired.

He makes his way back to the desk. There is nothing left to do now but sit and wait. His night's work is over, and he's impatient for the morning to arrive. But he will sit and wait, because he always does what he must.

It is still the darkest hour of the night, sometime after midnight, but closer to morning now. It is the darkest hour, when we are all most vulnerable to doubt, when our deepest fears rise up to plague us and then drag us back down with them if we give them half a chance. If we allow ourselves to succumb.

Soon it will be over.


End file.
